Félix González-Torres, Untitled (Perfect Lovers), 1990
The face of a clock,
Is no face at all;
a cake of quarters,
Four slices I count down through the hour.
The digits changing are like the full stops of my life.
Punctuating my day,
A full stop at the mark of every hour,
The conclusion of a sentence to segment my day.
Seconds tick by that I can’t see,
they trail obliviously to me.
I can’t hold them in my hand, can’t taste them or touch,
Yet by the marks of the hands,
I know they have passed.
As evening comes and darkness arrives,
I elongate my day with the switch of a light.
Although I sit in peace and quiet,
I am still aware of the silent clock.
I can’t hide from it, as time will flow.
Tomorrow will come and I will rise;
My phone will ring with messages,
I will empty my breakfast into a bowl
And I will resume to the tick of the clock.